


Open Heart Surgery

by Iknowash



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, Doctor John Watson, London, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, Superlock AU, castiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowash/pseuds/Iknowash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Guys, I haven't written in a while and this is my first Superlock fic. Leave me a comment letting me know what you think, PLEASE. I may take on a cowriter later as I cannot write the Winchesters very well and I would like to have some of this from their perspective. Send me a message if interested! Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Two Days Ago:**

The full moon rose over the Thames. A trashcan rattles as a homeless man is climbing inside inside a dumpster in search of food. The man hears a rustling besides himself and jerks around to investigate the noise. As he approaches the source of the sound,he is confronted by an enormous beast. A growl escapes the beast’s chest as he launches forward. An echoing scream is lost to the sounds of the bustling city.

**Meanwhile:**

“BORED!” Sherlock Holmes rockets himself off the sofa and across the room, pacing restlessly. “We haven’t had an interesting case in months!” He seizes John’s handgun from the foyer’s end table and takes aim at the wall.

John leaps from his chair, nearly knocking his laptop computer to the ground, and clenches the barrel of the gun before Sherlock could pull the trigger even once. Sherlock looked at him completely annoyed, obviously about to complain. “Oh no you don’t. Mrs. Hudson never forgave you for your decorating the last time. I would rather not have to pay for your boredom later on when she finds it.” Sherlock surrenders the handgun easily and pouts his way back to the sofa across the room. John returns to his chair beside the fireplace and quickly checks his email. No new cases. “Why don’t you phone Greg? Maybe he has something for you?” Sherlock was already on his back, eyes closed. His hands were together with his middle fingers against his nose. He was in his mind palace. There was no response for John so he returns once again to his blog before retiring for the evening unnoticed.

Over three hours had passed before Greg Lestrade burst through the door of 221B. His silver hair was disheveled as well as his charcoal suit. He looks as if he had sprinted all the way to the flat. His face morphs from a feared expression to a more annoyed expression as he realizes that Sherlock is alive and well on the sofa in front of him. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock waves him off.

“Don’t you know how to answer your mobile? I have been trying to phone you for over an hour! I thought maybe..” He never got to answer before Sherlock was upright, buttoning his black slim suit jacket.

“Yes, well. I’m alive and well. You can leave now unless you have something of the utmost importance to tell me.” He spoke with much disdain. He was on his feet now. Pacing throughout the flat in search of something.

“There’s been a murder.” Greg said. Sherlock was now on his knees searching under the sofa. “I would appreciate if you would pay attention to me when I am talking to you. Wbat are you even searching for?” The annoyance in his voice was vaguely obvious to Sherlock.

“My cigarettes. John has hidden them from me once again and Mrs. Hudson has made sure none of the venders will sell to me anymore, do keep up.”

“Now Sherlock, please be open minded.”  
“When am I not open minded,” the tall man responds, his face showing absolutely no emotion.  
Greg let out a little bit of laughter. “Oh wait you’re being serious.”

“JOHN!” Sherlock yells. Not two minutes later, John is in the threshold. Gun drawn. “Oh, good you’re awake. Come now. We’ve got a case.” A slightly premature smile comes over his face.

“ Following me as usual?” Greg left the flat already knowing the answer to his question. Sherlock throws on his coat and blue scarf, John his jumper and shoes, as they head down the stairs and out of the flat. Sherlock hails a cab and they follow Lestrade to the crime scene just on the other side of the Thames.

“Okay Sherlock. This is our victim.” The three men cross under the police tape and are standing over a completely mutilated body. “There’s no identification. My guess is a homeless straggler. We get a lot of these out here.”

Sherlock crouches over the overturned body before him. He pi ks up what is left of the man’s arm, sniffs it and returns it to the position in which he found it. John crosses his arm and checks his watch. 2:30am. He could be sleeping right now. When his attention returns to Sherlock, he is standing over the body, thoroughly examining the body without disturbing it’s position. After Sherlock’s investigation, he takes a deep breath. John knows what is to follow.

“Okay, The victim is in his early thirties. Former bassist for an obviously unsuccessful alternative music band. Based on the dirt on his boots, he was recently trudging along the riverbank, searching for valuables to sell for a little extra cash. Famished, he found his way up here, in this alley, and based on his scent, he was picking through this garbage can here ,” He points at the dumpster across the alley from him. “when he was attacked by a very large dog. The wounds on both of his arms are purely defensive. Now, Gavin, why have you called me in on a a blatant animal attack?” Sherlock, obviously frustrated, flips his coat collar up and proceeds away from the scene.

“That was bloody brilliant,” John says as he passes, earning a dirty look from the man himself.

“Sherlock!” Greg calls behind him. “He’s only got his heart missing. His arms are defensive, you said so yourself!”

Sherlock halts and turns on his heels. “Say that again.” He demands.

“He’s only missing his heart, Sherlock.” Greg lowers his tone as Sherlock approaches him once again. Sherlock gives him a curious smile.

“Now you have my attention.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Day 3:**

**Case: Open heart surgery**

Sherlock is lying on the sofa hands pyramided as John enters the flat of 221b Baker Street. John’s eyes glance over Sherlock’s form. He’s Stretched out, his long limbs consuming the entirety of the sofa. At the far end of the flat, John finds himself routinely brewing himself, and Sherlock even though he never asked, a cup of tea. It was days like this that John despises, though he would never admit; the days of the silent detective. John hopes that the case doesn’t take up too much more of the brilliant man’s time so he would again speak. The whistling of the tea kettle, _how long had that been going on?_ broke John out of his thought induced stupor. He grabs two mugs from the cabinet, inspecting them both for any of his flatmate’s experiments before pouring each of them a cup of tea, his own first and then Sherlock’s, adding honey to taste for his mate.

As John makes his way across the flat, Sherlock extends his right arm, eyes still closed; still deep in thought. He takes a sip of his tea and his eyes jut open.

“How could it NOT be an animal attack, John?” The question was rhetorical, so John keeps shut and drinks his tea, a smile slowly coming over his lips as his detective was speaking again. It had been three days. “This man has his heart missing. What am I missing?!” He stands on the sofa staring at the maps and case report on the wall.

“Sherlock the sofa.” his voice trails off. Sherlock leers at him. “I’m just saying, if you keep on the furniture as you do, there will be nothing left. You already broke the coffee table.”

“It was a BURGLAR,” he says this as if they have already had this conversation and wants to end it. He crosses the room and lights a cigarette.

“You found them then.”

“Obviously. I _am_ smoking. Seriously John, in your underpants drawer?” A slight smirk finds its way onto his face.

“I don’t even want to know how you figured that out. I may have found an expert on your case.”

Sherlock takes a long drag from his cigarette, enjoying every last second of the nicotine entering his blood stream. “John, I am hardly an expert. I am at a complete loss at the moment. Did you miss my rant a few seconds ago. I mean really, John, do you ever listen to me when I am talking anymore or do you just tune me out?”

“Yes, I normally tune you out, but I wasn’t referring to you. You git. I was looking up this nonsense on the internet earlier and I came across this website. Basically all of these phenomenons, and yes I do mean phenomenons, happen a lot in America.”

“America?” His tone is beyond annoyed.

“Yes, and I have already contacted the fellow. He said that he would be here as soon as possible. I trust that they will be here in a few days. You know, passports and plane tickets. Those are hard to come by last second over there.” John says, confident as ever.

With no notice at all, three men appear in the center of the flat. They’re bickering between each other.

“How many times have I told you that I don’t like it when you magically zap me places! It makes it to where I cannot poop for a week,” a man yells. His voice a bit raspier than the other two.

“It’s not magic, Dean.”another man answers as the tallest replies over him.

“Well, if you would get over your fear of flying he wouldn’t have to magically zap us places that were need to be.”

“Seriously, you guys, it’s not magic it’s a graceful, temporal shift that allows for us to move laterally around the Earth with time not moving forward.” the small man in the trench coat replies. John stares at the three men bewildered.

Sherlock, who had obviously had enough, “Shut up!” He tosses his cigarette out of the kitchen window, slamming it shut, grabbing the attention of the unwarranted guests in the room.”Who are you three and explain how you got into my flat. I have Scotland Yard on speed dial. Do not think for one moment that you can get the jump on me because I have already read you like a book. I will not hesitate to toss you out of my window. Now ANSWERS.”

The man in trench coat was the one to answer. “Your friend contacted us. I am Castiel and I am an angel of the Lord. These two brothers are Sam and Dean Winchester. We are here to help.” Sherlock stares at them in disbelief, still hung up on Castiel being an angel. He curls up in his chair by the foyer and stares off at nothing.

“I wasn’t expecting you for days.” John crosses over to the men, his hand extended.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dean asks. Dean is very much dressed like a cliche American bad-boy. His dirty boots were hidden underneath his dingy denim jeans. His plaid shirt under his leather jacket. His smile is stunning, and his scruffy very prominent. His dirty blond, or was it brown, hair is sticking up in a messy fashion. He was incredibly pretty and well put together for a man who lives out of his car and on fast food as a diet.

“Oh, don’t mind him. He is bloody brilliant, but a bit of a twat.” He chuckles a little as Sherlock gives him one of his signature glares. “Where are my manners? Would you like a cuppa tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I haven't written in a while and this is my first Superlock fic. Leave me a comment letting me know what you think, PLEASE. I may take on a cowriter later as I cannot write the Winchesters very well and I would like to have some of this from their perspective. Send me a message if interested! Thanks for reading!


End file.
